Tyrannical Blade Technique

A woman in red, whose beauty seemed otherworldly, descended gracefully. All the young men in the room, their gazes restless and uncertain, turned toward her, yet none dared approach or offend her. She was, of course, the mistress of the Bright Moon Pavilion. She glanced casually around, noticed an empty seat at Zhang Ling’s table, and quietly settled herself there.

The three men rose to greet her, then Ren Pingsheng’s gaze drifted away. Across from him, the woman sitting opposite gave a teasing smile and addressed him, “Young man, why do you wear a mask in my Bright Moon Pavilion? Ah, you’re a scholar, no wonder you’re so shy.”

Zhang Ling came to Ren Pingsheng’s aid, laughing lightly, “Miss Mingyue, my friend is bashful, don’t tease him.”

For reasons unknown, Zhang Ling inadvertently met her gaze. His golden eyes flashed, yet the woman did not flinch; instead, she narrowed her seductive eyes and gave a wicked smile, “Are you looking for trouble, sir?”

Zhang Ling swallowed hard, clasped his hands, and said, “I was presumptuous. I hope Miss Mingyue will not take offense.”

Only then did Zhang Ling understand why no one dared to covet the Bright Moon Pavilion—the stunning beauty before him was a hidden master.

The hem of the red-clad woman’s skirt fluttered without wind. A crimson ribbon slipped from her sleeve and quietly traced a shallow mark across the table before withdrawing. She spoke calmly, “I advise you both not to think your martial skills allow you to act recklessly in my pavilion. Be wary: you may enter upright, but leave lying flat. If you wish to challenge someone later, I will not interfere, but otherwise, please conduct yourselves accordingly.”

A gust of wind swept into the pavilion. A masked man landed silently atop the deserted embroidery tower. He peered down, raised his brows, and chuckled—a young voice: “Quite a crowd tonight. I wonder if, like before, it’s all pomp without substance.”

He entered Mingyue’s private chamber, where Mingyue rose and nodded to the actress on the stage. The performers withdrew, and Mingyue ascended to the platform; no one dared halt her.

As she climbed the stairs, Song Linjie sighed, “A true master.”

Soon the masked man exited the room, leaned over the ornate railing, and looked below. An eager young man leapt from his chair onto the table, striving to reach the second floor. He rejoiced at catching the railing, intending to swing up, but the masked man extended a finger, prying each of his fingers loose. The youth crashed onto the table from which he’d jumped, saved only by its sturdy construction.

The masked man extended his pinky. The youth’s companion, seeing his friend disgraced, shouted, “You rogue! How dare you act so brazenly? Today, I’ll capture you and hang you before the pavilion for all to see your humiliation.”

He leapt higher than the first, reaching nearly the second floor. The masked man grasped the railing, vaulted outward, and stomped him back down, sending him crashing onto the same table. This time, with the added force, the wooden legs finally gave way, splintering apart.

The masked man landed gracefully in his original spot. At that moment, Mingyue emerged from her room. He glanced back and gave a goofy smile. Mingyue raised her hand as if to strike, and he quickly retreated. Mingyue descended once more, taking her seat beside Zhang Ling.

Zhang Ling asked in confusion, “Miss Mingyue, do you know him?”

Mingyue looked up at the masked man and smiled, “He’s my brother.”

With this explanation, the three were all the more bewildered. Mingyue waved her hand, and the surrounding area fell silent, the world shrinking to their table alone. Though they were visible, no sound from the rest reached them. Zhang Ling blurted out, “A secret technique.”

Mingyue nodded with a soft smile, “Do you know the Hall of Clarity?”

The three nodded. Mingyue continued, “The Hall Master, Ming Liao, is my father. That masked man is my brother, Wu Zhi. Years ago, my father was investigating something and caused my mother’s death. Wu Zhi blames him, so he left the Hall and took our mother’s surname. He’s now a disciple at the Dao Academy, and I am one of the four deputy masters of the Hall of Clarity.”

On hearing Wu Zhi was an academy disciple, Song Linjie grew excited, drew his blade, and rushed out. The scholar across from them finally spoke, “Miss Mingyue, after telling us all this, are you planning to silence us?”

Mingyue looked him straight in the eye, a hint of admiration for his composure after learning her identity. She turned to Zhang Ling, “Your name is Zhang Ling, isn’t it?”

Zhang Ling was not surprised by her directness. In this world, walls may not be airtight, but there is no power that doesn’t know such things. He nodded and asked, “So Wu Zhi isn’t here to steal anything?”

Mingyue played with her red ribbon, which wrapped nimbly around her pale, slender fingers. She handed Zhang Ling a letter, and he realized the masked man was delivering a message. The letter contained details Zhang Ling had already guessed: the other two deputy masters, Qin Yi and Su Li, had clashed at Peach Blossom Mountain, with specifics on the battle but no mention of the outcome.

Zhang Ling passed the letter to Pingsheng. He then saw Mingyue, her cheeks like peach blossom, gently brush the table, and understood instantly, saying with a smile, “Miss Mingyue, you fancy Qin Yi?”

The red-clad woman’s face flushed with embarrassment and anger, and she glared at him. Zhang Ling hurriedly added, “Qin Yi is so handsome that even women feel inferior around him. I think only Miss Mingyue is his equal. May you both soon be united in heart and soul.”

The woman smiled alluringly, “Just as Qin Yi said: outwardly smooth, inwardly slippery—two faces, two hearts. But I accept your blessing and thank you for helping him resolve his feelings.”

Zhang Ling suddenly blurted, disrupting the mood, “Miss Mingyue, you must be thirty, aren’t you?”

The woman waved her hand, and the surrounding sounds returned. She shook her red ribbon, “If you truly wish for death, I might reluctantly grant your wish.”

Zhang Ling gave an awkward smile and turned to look at Song Linjie.

Wu Zhi, masked, leaped through the tower, agile as a swallow, slipping past Song Linjie’s blade like a fish in clear water. The Sky-Tempering Blade crashed onto the corridor, its force spreading outward, damaging the intricate pavilion with each exchange. The two fought like a rhinoceros colliding with a butterfly—wild, relentless, yet unable to harm one another.

Song Linjie stood atop the pavilion, his blade slicing through the air with unmatched sharpness. Wu Zhi faced the charging warrior calmly, leaped lightly onto the blade’s tip, and descended gracefully onto the table where the four sat. The four jumped up in alarm, but none dared challenge him.

Those present were sons of noble houses, accustomed to comfort, and aside from a handful of military heirs, who would risk hardship for swordplay? Most were merely bored with the capital and came for entertainment; a rare spectacle such as this was not to be missed.

So it was not reluctance, but simply that they came to watch the excitement. Wu Zhi, standing lightly on the table, smiled, “Song Linjie, today I finally meet a worthy opponent.”

Song Linjie was unconcerned that Wu Zhi knew his name and shouted, “If you’re really so formidable, why do you run?”

Wu Zhi replied without hesitation, “Honestly, in terms of martial skill, I am not your equal, so I won’t face you head-on.”

The young men present felt a surge of satisfaction at Wu Zhi’s admission of inferiority, but, realizing it was not themselves who forced him to yield, were slightly disgruntled. Yet, they could not deny the handsome youth’s remarkable prowess.

Song Linjie raced along the edge of the pavilion, wielding the three principles of the Overbearing Blade: Swift Leaf, Rending Break, and Dominance.

The first principle, Swift Leaf: attack without defense, relentless as the wind.